


A Little Broken Something

by roberre



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Childbirth, Dark One!Regina, F/M, apocolypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:30:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roberre/pseuds/roberre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He struck out into the wind—the wind and the rain and the swirling green clouds—and knew he didn’t have a lot of time. He knew the world was ending (they all knew it, they’d known it for months and now it was finally here, now it was finally unravelling like a spool of poorly spun wool) and he knew Belle was dying and he knew there was only one chance to save them both.</p><p>Written for the Rumbelle Prompt Machine. </p><p>Prompt: Belle goes into labor during end-of-world.</p><p>Dialogue: "Belle!”/“Don’t do this, not now.”/“Wait, what just happened?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Broken Something

He struck out into the wind—the wind and the rain and the swirling green clouds—and knew he didn’t have a lot of time. He knew the world was ending (they all knew it, they’d known it for months and now it was finally here, now it was finally unravelling like a spool of poorly spun wool) and he knew Belle was dying and he knew there was only one chance to save them both.

He needed to  _run_.

It looked terribly bad—the town coward leaving his pregnant wife alone in their cottage. He knew what his neighbours would say (if they could see him), and what the townspeople would think (if they could manage to survive until the end of the day, which was impossible). He knew what Belle must be feeling, when she’d seen the panic in his eyes when the first tremors began to shake the packed ground beneath their feet. But he also knew she trusted him (and just maybe she’d forgive him for what he was about to do, if it meant their child would survive the next few hours).

And so he ran, as fast as his mangled ankle would allow, all his weight on his good leg, his shoulders burning as he stabbed the restless soil with his staff, eating up the ground in length strides until he ineffectively gasped at the thinning air. Until he stumbled with haste and staggered with effort, face tilted up towards the vengeful sky. Until he climbed the hill where it was buried, and managed not to collapse just through sheer desperation.

And when he stopped running, he dropped to his knees and began to claw through packed dusty soil with his bare hands.

The world gave another shake (and his heart dropped, because maybe this was the end, right  _now,_ this very moment and he’d waited too long)—but the ground stopped moving and his nails caught against rough wood, and he pulled off the lid of a rough-hewn box packed with straw. Trembling, sweating and shaking and hardly breathing, he reached into the midst of the straw and pulled out a dagger.

The dagger.                                                                                                    

It hummed with power. It seemed to rage against his unwanted palm like a living thing, like it resented his hold on it, like a creature in its death throes. Magic was fading from the world, and—like everything else— it fought to survive. He waited out the fit of revulsion it threw at him, the waves of anger that clattered against his mind like siege weapons or broken pottery. He ignored his own churning stomach and used his staff to push himself to his feet. And then he read the name from the wicked blade.

“Regina,” he said slowly. (A long unused name, a rusty metal scrape of tongue against his teeth.) “Dark Queen. I summon thee.”

Nothing happened for a long while. Then again, nothing ever did. Not right away. (He hoped he wasn’t too late. He hoped she hadn’t already drained of magic, like the wizards and warlocks and seers and prophets of this world, like the court magicians and the conjurors who peddled cheap tricks in the cities. He hoped she hadn’t succumbed, just before he needed her the most.)

And then the dagger  _screeched_. In his mind, light and sounds and smells and tastes exploded, an undecipherable whirl of sensation and thought and  _rage_  as she fought against the pull of the knife. It through his will, trying to break him, trying to force him to lose the desperation (and his grip), by which he tenuously controlled one of the world’s most powerful beings. (It tried to make him give up, but the swell of his wife’s belly under the palm of his hand, the touch of her lips to his throat, her hiss of breath when the first contractions rocked her body… his memories and his fear for Belle kept him solidly grounded.)

Sweat beaded his brow. And Regina was there.

She looked haggard—pale, breathing heavily, clad in leather that did nothing to hide the slump in her shoulders—and she glared at him as if she could ignite him by sheer malice and warm herself by a human bonfire. Likely, if he hadn’t been holding the dagger, she could.

“What?” she snapped.

“I want—”

She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “I’m sure you do. Well, if you haven’t already gathered—” she gestured to the swirling, angry clouds with a sweep of black-clawed hands, “—I’m a bit busy at the moment. I have better things to do than to listen to your useless, simpleminded requests.” A list of ‘simpleminded’ requests drifted across his surface thoughts and he narrowed his eyes. Better quality food for Belle, a new spinning wheel when their old cottage burned to the ground, immunity from the plague sweeping the land two years prior. He decided not to rise to her baiting.

“I want you to be quiet, and listen to me,” he finally said, voice hardly audible over the rush of wind. More fury, defiance, resentment—a muddle of hot and angry emotions pulled at him through the dagger. He could only feel a dim reflection, and he was surprised the force of her emotions wasn’t driving her literally insane. (Maybe it was.) 

She glared at him, but didn’t speak.

He adjusted his grip around the hilt of the dagger, and adjusted his mental control at the same time. “Belle is having a baby,” he said.

“How nice for you,” she said. “Congratulations.”

“Silence,” he hissed, through gritted teeth. Her mouth snapped shut immediately. “Belle is having a baby,” he said, speaking slowly to combat the headache burning at the back of his eyes, “and I want us to be safe. All of us. Belle survives, the baby survives, I survive, and you take us to a world that’s not about to collapse on us.”

“What you  _want_  is a complete breakdown of the barrier between worlds. What you  _want_  is for me to transport not only one, but three people across this rift, without collapsing both worlds simultaneously from the strain. Do you have any idea how difficult that will be?”

He tightened his grip on the dagger’s hilt. “No,” he says. “But I don’t care.”

She glared at him again, dark, shimmering eyes swirling like the clouds. She folded her arms over her chest and tapped her long nails against the leather of her black and red jacket.

“We will have to go to a non-magical world. Breach the veil. There are very few ways to do this, and even fewer that will allow you to survive the transition.”

“But there are ways,” he said. It wasn’t really a question. “Answer me, truthfully.”

“Yes,” she said. “I suppose there are ways.” She takes a step forward, an easy, languid step, until he can see the minute scales on her grey-gold skin glinting, until he can hear the creak of her leather and smell the scent of her—usually a powerful musky scent, like pinewood coals or hot metal. Now, rotting, fading, dying, like everything else. Magic being ripped away from her.

He held tight to the dagger, but he did not step back, even as she came within arm’s length. She couldn’t harm him.

“There will be a price, you know,” she said coldly.

He took a heavy breath of thinning air in response.

Of course there would be a price. There always was. There always would be. He’d known that since the minute he came into possession of the dagger—since the moment the beggar had pulled it from his own belt and shoved it into Rumplestiltskin’s hands with a warning. The dying man had not told Rumple his name, or what he was doing on the road at night, or how he had come into possession of such a powerful object. But he had told Rumplestiltskin that all magic came with a price. And that price, that warning, was the only reason the poor spinner hadn’t showered his wife in gold and jewels, why he spun his fingers to the bone every night just to eat, why they were still poor and he was still the town coward.

 “Name it,” he said. “I’ll pay it.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“I said I’ll pay it.”

She stared him down and tapped her fingers on her jacket again, suppressing a little giggle as she looked him over. “How very noble of you.”

“Tell me what you want,” he said.

She smiled, and it split her face like a gash, lips peeling back from crooked and blackened teeth. “The price,” she said, drawing the word out with a hiss, “is soon to arrive.”

His blood ran cold. His grip tightened on his staff and the dagger, until his knuckles turned white and felt near to popping. “No.” 

“Your child,” she said. He didn’t need the clarification. His pulse was already racing.

“Never. Not ever. That’s out of the question.”

Regina shrugged. “In that case, your wife’s life should be sufficient to transport your child and you. Unfortunately, that would leave you rather without a wife.” She smiled again, this time a little more subdued, with a quirk of lips rather than a flash of teeth, and looked down the hill as if she could spy on the little cottage where Rumplestiltskin and Belle lived.

“Take me instead.”

Regina waved him off. “You overestimate your own importance, little spinner.” She held up both her hands, palms up, like she was weighing a bag of gold in each. “Your living child,” she emphasized one empty palm, before gesturing with the other, “or your dead wife. Those are your choices.”

“Don’t do this,” he begged, although begging had never swayed the Dark Queen. “Not now. Not to Belle. Don’t take our child away, please. Don’t destroy our family. It’s all we’ve wanted.”

“That’s not my concern,” Regina said. “ _You_  called me here, remember.”

“I had no choice.”

“And now you do.” Another rotten-teeth-flash smile. “So I suggest you choose wisely.”

He felt unsteady, dizzy, a falling sensation completely distinct from the trembling earth. The world was ending before his eyes, and he would sacrifice it (and everyone in it) a hundred times over if he could save his child.

Except for Belle.

He called the Dark Queen precisely because he  _could not_  watch her die. Knowing that he could have saved her—that he’d essentially killed her—even for the sake of their little child… he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. The Queen acted like he had a choice, as if pitting a father between mother and baby was some sort of boon. It was no choice. It was merely agony, suspended over two points instead of one. Horrific decisions, turning him from a victim to a guilty man no matter which way he turned.

He didn’t know if he could live with himself. (But he knew his baby and his wife could not live without him.)

“If I agree,” he said slowly, trying to steady his breathing, “will the baby survive?”

 “You have my word. But I highly doubt you’ll ever see him again.”

 _Him_. A boy. Regina made no errors in speech.

A boy.

His hands began to shake. “What will you do with him?”

“I don’t care to tell you,” Regina said.

“But he’ll live…”

Regina made an exasperated gesture. “Have you lost your hearing? I said yes.”

He pressed his lips together and tightened his hold on his staff. His eyes dropped to the ground—he couldn’t help it—he couldn’t look at her. He stared at the hole where the box had sat, untouched, for years. He stared at the loose dirt and the scuffle of footprints and scuffmarks where his staff dug into the ground.

“What will I tell Belle?” he asked. He nearly choked on the words. They barely reached across the space between them.

“Not my concern.”

Still, it seemed he was decided. He took a breath. He fought back tears. “Yes,” he said.

Regina clapped her hands together with a gesture that only fractionally preceded a burst of rolling thunder. Rumplestiltskin started, suddenly cold, clammy. Dread filled his stomach.

(His boy would live—but would life with the Dark Queen be any kinder than a quick end?)

“It’s a deal,” Regina said. “I’ll come by to collect him, shall I?” Regina paused and cocked her head, as if listening to something. “You may want to return home. Your wife seems…” the Dark Queen paused, lips splitting to reveal teeth once more, “…distressed.”

Belle.

There was no time to dwell on his decision. No time to agonize over a loss that had not yet come to pass—not when Belle was screaming and in pain and waiting for him to return. She would be frightened, and hurt, and he could not wait another moment. So he slid the dagger into his belt and scrambled down the hill as fast as he could, sliding and stumbling, narrowly avoiding tumbling on the rocks and tree roots attempting to impede his progress.

He heard her screaming as soon as he stepped inside their little wooden fence.

“Belle!” he shouted back as he pushed open the door. “Belle, I’m here! I’m here, sweetheart.”

He held her hand through the whole ordeal, until his fingers felt near to cracking. And maybe if she was coherent, she would have asked where he was, or why his nails were nearly bloodied from digging, or why he was coated in dust from head to toe. (Or if he’d managed to save her, or if the world was truly ending, or a hundred other questions because she was naturally curious— but right now all she could do was scream.)

It seemed to last forever, and her screams terrified him more than the earthquakes. And then it was over.

And Belle was drowsy and sleeping (and passing out, blissfully, thankfully unconscious because how could he tear their child from her grasping arms), and he held his son.

And his son was beautiful. And his son was perfect. And his son was so tiny. It was so effortless to lift him away, and sever the chord, and wrap him in the golden shawl Belle had so lovingly made over the long winter months. So effortless to hold him, and smile down at him, and shed silent tears when the tiny perfect hand reached up and grabbed his nose. (If only it could last forever.)

But Rumplestiltskin knew it could not end, and even if he closed his eyes and pretended it would, and delaying the inevitable would only hurt more.

He pushed open the door

The Dark Queen leaned against the cottage, arms folded, staring at her nails. When Rumplestiltskin stepped out onto the cracked ground, she looked up and bared crooked teeth. “Took her long enough,” Regina said.

He wanted to plead, and beg, and drop to his knees and kiss her boots and pray for her to take him instead. But he knew it wouldn’t accomplish anything, except to humiliate himself further. So he walked forward in silence, cradling his son in his arms, and hoped that Belle will never ever find out about the terrible cost of their survival.

Regina took the baby, almost tenderly, from his arms.

“Hold out your hand,” she said.

He did.

She dropped a clear bean into his open palm. Their survival. The replacement for their child. (And it was so much lighter than his son, and yet so much harder to hold).

“We would have named him Baelfire.” Rumple said.

“Not everything works out the way we planned.” Her lips twitched, and she ran a gentle finger down the child’s nose. “Your wife is calling.”

A faint ‘Rumple’ drifted through the still-open doorway. He turned to look (to make sure she isn’t looking out at him, clinging to the doorframe, staring in open-mouthed shock at his callous inhumanity). And when he turned back, Regina and his son are gone.

(He didn’t get to say goodbye.)

He clung to the bean until his palms ached, and his almost-bloodied nails bit into his palm. He clung to it when he smoothed back Belle’s hair with his free hand and kissed her forehead, and when she looked around the cottage, and when she grabbed his arm and he called her his ‘brave little Belle’.

He clung to the bean when she asks what happened to the baby.

He cried. He couldn’t help it. (And yet he couldn’t let go of the bean, couldn’t even uncurl his fingers and show her exactly what happened to their son.)

“He died,” he said quietly.

She didn’t believe him for a long moment.

And then something inside her broke into a thousand pieces. And even when they landed on the other side, flat on their faces on a strange stone road, in a world safe from destruction—he knew that broken something could never be repaired.

 

xxxx

 

They go by ‘Gold’ now, for the last fifteen years—and she’s no longer a girl, and his hair has gone grey, and she smiles because his office looks so handsome on the main street of this little town.

They go by ‘Gold’, and so the sign above his office reads ‘Rumford Gold, Legal Advisor’, and the plaque on her desk in the library reads ‘Belle Gold, Librarian’, and she is happy. Because they are together, and they have been through a lot  _together_ , but now they have a home and jobs and maybe (just maybe, maybe one day) they can have a family. Maybe he’ll stop looking at her like she’s broken, and she’ll stop looking at him like he’s hiding something (and maybe he will stop hiding things, and she will stop being broken) and maybe they’ll be happy.

She wraps herself around his arm and looks up into his face with a smile (and she’s no longer a girl, and his hair has gone grey), and maybe this is what hope feels like.

It’s been so long.

They’re due something good.

“Well,” he asks (and his accent has faded over time, but his voice is a low growl and his breath tickles her ear, “what do you think?”

She turns her face up and presses a kiss to his jaw. “I think it’s lovely,” she says. “And our home is lovely, and your new suits are lovely. I think everything is just—“ another kiss “—absolutely—“ a third kiss, this one this one at the corner of his mouth instead of the underside of his jaw “—lovely.”

He smiles, and though she can’t see his eyes through his tinted glasses, he looks happy too. “I’m glad you approve,” he says.

“I do.” She threads her fingers through his, and they turn, looking across the street at the library she’s to manage (beginning on Monday). The day is warm, spring and filled with flowers and the smell of rain, and people walk arm in arm along the sidewalk. Smiling, laughing, chatting. A pair of small children walk with their mother, each in one hand, trying to pull her in opposite directions.

“What made you choose Maine?” she asks. (She’d let him pick, once they had the money for a house, where they would settle down.)

“Oh,” he says, “no particular reason. I like the locals.”

“They seem nice,” she says. “I think I’ll make some friends here.”

“I hope so.”

They fall into silence (but comfortable, easy, him still smiling and her still holding his arm) until they reach the small diner midway through town. She had taken the initiative and made a lunch reservation over the phone that morning, and it’s a good thing—because the diner is packed, and Rumford ( _Rumplestiltskin_ ) looks visibly relieved when a waitress in red and white leads them to a quieter booth by the back of room.  Rum says he’s starving, and he wants a hamburger (and she thinks that’s a good idea).

They sit down, across from a teenaged boy and his dark haired mother, and Rum’s relief evaporates like a puddle on hot asphalt.

His eyes grow wide. His hands stiffen on his cane. Belle has to coax him into his seat, and even then, he stares.

The boy has dark hair that falls to his shoulder in tight waves, a little too long and a little too wild, but somehow it suits him. The boy has dark eyes that sparkle when he laughs, and the barest hint of stubble on his chin. The boy wears a hoodie and carries a cellphone, and Belle can’t see a single thing about him that would upset her husband. (Except for the usual reasons, perhaps, because the boy is about fifteen and the thought of it often hollows out a pit in her stomach, too. But she stopped staring years ago, and she stopped thinking about it, and she pretends it doesn’t hurt because it hurts him every single day.)

The mother wears a business suit and wears her hair cut to her shoulders, and she looks important. She smiles back at her son, but mostly she responds to text messages on her phone.

“We have to go,” Rumford says.

“But we haven’t eaten,” Belle says, surveying the menu. (She wants a hamburger, and badly).

“I’m feeling suddenly ill.” He places his cutlery and cloth napkin on his plate and moves to stand.

“Wait,” she says, and slides her hands over his. “What just happened? A minute ago you said you were starving.” She glances to the mother and the son. “Do you know them? Did they do something to you?”

He presses his lips together and shakes his head and does not answer her.

“Please, talk to me,” she says.

He stares at the table, and stares at his hands, and stares at the woman (and does not look Belle in the eyes).

Belle turns to the woman once more (and the woman stares back, this time with a twisted-up mouth and cold black eyes and a glint of puzzling victory in her gaze).

She convinces Rumple to stay, after a long, tense moment where he grips his cane and sits on the edge of his seat like he might bolt at any moment.

The woman and the boy leave several moments later, with a “Come along, Neal” and a “Yeah, okay, I’m coming,”— and something in Rum’s demeanor splinters when theyleave. Something in his smile. Something in the way he answers without looking at her, and speaks without listening to her, and the way he keeps glancing to the vacated booth across from them like he lost something very terrible by the woman and the boy’s departure.

They eat their hamburgers, and return to a salmon-sided home on the far edge of town.

They have a new house, and new jobs, and a new name (of fifteen years, but so many things are still  _new_ in relative terms)… but sometime she wishes they could have a new start.

Because something’s a little broken with them both.

And hearts are something she can’t fix. 


End file.
